


every bell on earth will ring

by bravest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Castiel Works in a Bookstore, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravest/pseuds/bravest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was looking for a book," he said lamely, and Castiel rolled his eyes and began to turn away so he could put the books down.</p><p>"Of course. You are in a bookstore," Castiel said as he left the books on a nearby stool. "Do you also need it to open and have things printed on the pages, sir?"</p><p>"Dean."</p><p>"What?" Castiel asked, pointedly pushing his own glasses on his own nose on his own self.</p><p>"Name's Dean. Don't have to call me sir," he said, the grin returning. Castiel raised an eyebrow.</p><p>"Okay, sir," he said, picking up a book from his pile to slip it between the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every bell on earth will ring

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for [lucifeller](http://lucifeller.tumblr.com) for the deancas secret santa exchange! I hope you like it, and that it's as fluffy and AU-y as you dreamed of :')

The cart of books he'd been shelving was nearly done. The store was quiet tonight, most customers not up to braving the storm outside. If they did, they opted for the bigger chains, more likely to have what they were looking for there than in his employer's smaller, family owned place. Castiel picked up a hefty pile of books to carry to their appropriate shelves. Christmas music played softly from the speakers cleverly hidden in the ceiling, but Castiel tuned it out. There were only so many times one could hear _Little drummer boy_ before losing it.

He never thought much of Christmas. The holidays evoked in him only memories of tense family dinners under the scrutiny of his parents, and hours of teasing and pranks from his older cousins. Being the only boy in the Milton family was a curse, apparently, and his boy cousins made a point of giving him as much trouble as they could in the span of an evening, claiming it was for his good, so he knew what 'life with boys' was like.

It was gross, and little had changed as his family aged and grew up. Now men, now women, the dinners were as tense as ever as rumours and squabbles and lies wove themselves around them. Castiel couldn't understand how they could treat each other this way. After Lucifer's arrest, things had only gotten worse, and once it had come to light that his parents' enterprises had been less than fair (the word 'sweatshop' comes to mind), he'd had enough. He wanted nothing to do with them anymore.

Moving across the country was the best way to ensure that, and no matter how many times Michael told him he could pay him a flight home ( _At least for the holidays, cousin_ ), Castiel turned him down. Nothing Michael offered was ever a real gift. It was an exchange, and he would expect something later, call in a favour. Besides, it was their family's money, not Michael's, and Castiel didn't want to touch that. 

Being disowned by the Milton & Novak families was thought a horrible punishment, but it had been what Castiel had wanted his entire life. Now he earned his own money, now he was free, now he had no one but himself. He didn't mind. He was perfectly fine here, with his books and his apartment and his broken glasses. Here he could work, here he could bury his nose in history books without someone scoffing at him over his shoulder. Here he could _live_. His life, ruled only by his own choices.

Lost in thought, frowning at the book in his hand while cradling the others in his arms, he turned the corner only to collide right into someone that had _clearly_ not been respecting the fact that this was a _bookstore_ , not a running track.

"Woah, sorry!" Cas heard as his hands fumbled to retain their grip on the tower of books nestled in his arms. He managed to keep most of them, but one fell to the floor with a slap. When he looked up (through half his glasses, as they'd slipped off a little), a scowl already plastered to his face, he was met with an easy grin. The smile was somewhat sheepish, as if in after thought.

"Watch where you're going," Cas said firmly, although not as cold as he'd been preparing. The man shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck, lowering himself to pick up Castiel's book.

"Sorry, man. Kinda in a hurry," he said, placing the book back where it had been, on top of the pile.

A second look told Castiel that it was still snowing outside; snowflakes were caught in the guy's hair, powdered his shoulders. There was a pink tint to his cheeks and the tip of his nose. The man sniffed loudly ( _impolitely_ ) and Castiel looked him up and down with distaste. The man's boots were dripping. Obviously he hadn't stopped to get the snow off of them in the entrance before waltzing in.

Castiel looked up again, the man now frowning at him. Irritation came at Castiel in a wave, and he immediately disliked him. To his surprise, the stranger then did something that made him dislike him even more. He reached for Castiel's face and pushed his glasses up his nose. Like it was nothing. Like they were old friends. Castiel had trouble judging others' personal bubbles, but his own was rarely overstepped so casually. The gesture, more intimate than what Castiel was used to from _anyone_ , _ever,_ really, startled him. He jerked his face away and took a step back.

"What do you want?" He asked, but the words were defensive and harsh, not polite and enquiring. Not the words of an employee who's job it is to find the perfect book for you, or for the space under the Christmas tree. The man's eyes widened, and he looked at his hand for a second, as if surprised to find it there, before dropping it and looking away, at a wall lined with posters advertising new releases.

"I was looking for a book," he said lamely, and Castiel rolled his eyes and began to turn away so he could put the books down.

"Of course. You _are_ in a bookstore," Castiel said as he left the books on a nearby stool. "Do you also need it to open and have things printed on the pages, sir?"

"Dean."

"What?" Castiel asked, pointedly pushing his own glasses on his own nose on his own self.

"Name's Dean. Don't have to call me sir," he said, the grin returning. Castiel raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, sir," he said, picking up a book from his pile to slip it between the others. 

"Wow,  someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," the man said with an awkward chuckle. He was trying to relieve the tension, but Castiel didn't care enough for it to work. He didn't grace the comment with a response, only motioning a hand towards the sports section.

"The sports books are there. Or, if you'd like, the rock star biographies are on this side," he added. It wasn't like him to make assumptions about what people liked to read. He knew better than anyone not to trust appearances, and that books were books, no matter the topic. The man, however, was wearing a worn leather jacket and torn jeans, and his boots had seen better days. He also didn't wipe his shoes of snow, or look where he was going, or know how to greet another human being without getting his rough hands in their face.

"I'm actually…looking for something by Vonnegut?"

"Oh," Castiel said, feeling a bit like an idiot. Dean had butchered the pronunciation, but no one could be blamed for that. "For yourself?" Castiel added, narrowing his eyes as he appraised Dean again, but in a new light this time. Maybe he'd been too quick to judge him, but the holiday season was _Hell_ when it came to customers, and Castiel's patience was running low.

Looking at him again, Castiel read _road_ and _likes working with his hands_ and _too proud to wear a winter hat_.

"Yeah," Dean said, glancing at the _Fiction_ sign hanging above them. "This is the right place, right?"

Castiel nodded, and then motioned with his hand for Dean to follow him. He led him to the end of the row, and tapped the _V_ that was taped on the shelf itself. 

"Here. They got in alphabetical order, by writer's last name."

"Awesome, thanks," Dean said. There was an awkward pause, both of them standing there on the verge of something. Their eyes locked and Castiel felt a bit of the animosity wash away, felt something tug, and he decided he could, at the very least, do his job.

"If I may," he said, reaching for a copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_. Dean took it from his hands as he handed it over. "This one is particularly good. One of his most popular novels, I believe," he said. Dean nodded, fingers trailing along the cover.

"You read it?"

"I have, yes."

"Tell me about it."

 

* * *

 

The storm hadn't slowed in it's fury when closing time rolled around. Castiel began unplugging the christmas lights that were hung here and there around the store. The girl at the cash register, Meg, watched him instead of doing her job, like usual.

"Meg, please do your job," he called to her as he unplugged the last plastic Christmas tree. She laughed, a low, throaty thing, and then Castiel heard money clinking as she began. He busied himself to making everything look clean and presentable. Not many customers meant most of the tables and displays had been untouched, so it was quick work to set every book straight.

He grabbed the keys and closed the rest of the lights, leaving a row of them at the counter for Meg. He locked the doors (testing them twice to be sure), and then made his way to Meg to check the amount of the deposit he'd be making. This was all routine, had been for the last few years. The bookstore had become part of what _home_ was to him, and the people working there weren't quite family, and not quite friends, but people he cared for all the same.

"So," Meg started, and Castiel steeled himself. Meg was good at making people think she liked them, which he believed was one of the reasons she'd stayed this long. Making her do anything she didn't want to was impossible, and whenever she agreed to help it usually served a grander purpose in her plans, like getting an extra ten minutes of lunch break.

"Yes?" Castiel asked.

"That guy."

"What guy?"

"The one that you talked to for, like, half an hour!" She exclaimed, closing up the last of the computers. "He was pretty hot. Almost as hot as you."

"Really? Didn't notice," Castiel muttered as he sat down to take off his shoes to replace them with his winter boots. He had, actually, a little. As he told Dean about the book, Castiel noticed. Dean had listened, attentive, a small curve to his lips and nodding at all the right parts. He'd even asked questions, and by the end he'd grinned wide and bright and declared _sold!_ before taking the book with him to the cash register.

He _was_ handsome. Like, romance-novel handsome. Full lips and sharp jaw and just a little stubble and bright eyes framed by long eyelashes. A grin that could light up a room.

Now his thoughts were bordering on stupid, so Castiel reigned them in. He grabbed his coat and slipped it on, trying to think instead of what he'd have for dinner.

"Yeah, he was. He was totally into you, too," Meg said, winking at Castiel, who grimaced and feigned disgust.

"I'm sure," he said.

"Didn't he say he was in a hurry? And then spent half an hour listening to you ramble about some book?" Meg said, raising her eyebrows.

"Hurry up and get your coat on," Castiel said as he glowered at her, mostly because she made a good point and it embarrassed him and he hoped looking angry faded the flush of his cheeks.

"Alright, Mr. Hot Librarian," she teased, grinning at him as he rolled his eyes.

"See you tomorrow?" Meg said as they reached the door.

"See you tomorrow," he confirmed before they parted ways. He watched her disappear in the snow fall, and then with a deep breath, trudged his way to the nearest subway station. He did not think about Dean's hands, nor did he think about how telling Dean about the book had almost seemed like a conversation, rather than a sale attempt. He did not think about how his dislike had quickly left as Dean engaged him, and he didn't think about how he hoped that Dean would come back to tell him what he'd thought.

Hope was only disappointment.

Almost week later, and Castiel knew he asked for this by having hope in the first place. Dean never returned, and he spent his shifts buried in his work. Thankfully, with the holiday season came the holiday rush, and the closer they got to Christmas, the busier they were. He didn't have time to look whenever someone walked in, didn't have time to do a double take when he saw the back of a leather jacket turn a corner. He lost himself in the rows of books, breathing their smell, their stories, sharing them to those who would listen, and watched them leave in hands that weren't his.

 

* * *

 

It was exactly a week after Castiel felt _Slaughterhouse Five_ leave his hands for Dean's that he saw him again.

Dean walked in with a flurry of snow, sniffling loudly and taking deep breaths. Castiel froze with a book halfway to a shelf. He'd spent the week telling himself it didn't matter whether or not Dean returned, as he'd only been a customer. A mildly annoying one, at that. The words he'd built to convince himself shattered as Dean ran a hand through his hair, shaking snowflakes out of it. Meg cleared her throat as Dean seemed to look around, and just as Castiel was seen, he ducked quickly out of the way, behind a display table on which books towered high enough to hide him.

Which was dumb, because he'd wanted was to see Dean again all week. To talk to him, to give him more books to read, and most of all to hear what he'd thought of Vonnegut. You could learn a lot about a person by the kind of books they were moved by, what kind of writing left a mark on them, and Castiel wanted to know.

A woman gave him a funny look, and Castiel pretended to be arranging the books on the display. The store was pretty crowded; maybe Dean would think he was absent and leave.

"Are you hiding from me, Cas?" Dean spoke from over his shoulder, and Castiel startled and whipped around to scowl at him.

"No," he said, before something — _Cas_ — made him frown further. "Cas?"

"It's easier than Castiel," Dean said. Castiel tried to tune out his eyes to Dean just as he could tune out his ears to the Christmas music, but it wasn't working. His hands were still nice, and there were faded freckles on the bridge of his nose.

More importantly, Dean knew something he had no right to.

"How do you know my name?"

Dean pointed over his shoulder, and Castiel glanced behind him. Meg waved her fingers at him with a grin, then rested her chin in the heel of her palms as she leaned on her elbows, fluttering her eyelashes at both of them.

"Ugh," Castiel said. Dean laughed, and Castiel found himself smiling at the sound.

"She seems like a piece of work," Dean said, jerking his chin toward Meg. Castiel shrugged, his hands fixing crooked piles of book, an automatic gesture after years of working in the store.

"She's not that bad. She has some good in her," Castiel said. "Have you finished the book?" He blurted out, cursing himself for being too eager. Dean had been so responsive when Castiel had talked to him about it, he had to know he'd been right and that Dean had liked it as much as Castiel thought he would. He had to know whether Dean would light up when he talked about it like people did when they talked about things they cared about.

"Yep," Dean said, pulling it out of his pocket. It was worn and dog-eared, looking much loved. A little more of Castiel's wariness faded, wore down like the book Dean was holding. When a book looked like that, it had been carried around and touched and definitely read, no matter the circumstances. Castiel was more the kind to try and keep his books in pristine condition, but he knew every reader's relationship with a book was different. Dean had kept the book with him all week, from the looks of it, which warmed him up to Castiel.

He was still a little wary, but that mostly came from his own unexpected feelings. He cared, and hung off of Dean's lips waiting for him to start talking.

"Castiel, I'm really going to need you up front," a squeaky voice piped up from beside them. Becky looked frazzled, despite the rosy tint to her cheeks. She was right, the store was loud with the buzz of conversation, and while Kevin was good, and Meg was fast, Castiel was the balance between them.

Still, he hadn't even had a chance to talk to Dean about what he'd thought. He glanced at him, and Dean's eyes left Becky to find his. They shared a look, and Castiel wondered if Dean had ever modelled, because the guy had definitely just smiled at him with nothing but his eyes. Or maybe it was his imagination.

"Yes, right away," Castiel said. Dean watched Becky walk away to greet a customer with a raised eyebrow.

"Was that your boss?"

"Yes. Manager. Owner's wife," Castiel explained. "I should go," he said, the words not empty of reluctance. 

Dean seemed to be searching for something, but when he said nothing Castiel began moving away.

"Wait, Cas," Dean said. Cas turned before the word _wait_ was even fully out of Dean's mouth, feeling like the protagonist of an overdone harlequin novel. All they needed was the tears in their eyes and the wind blowing in their hair. Oh, and also to be shirtless, but the image of Dean shirtless was not one he wanted to entertain just yet.

"Yes?"

"If you want, we could talk about it. The book, I mean," Dean said. "There's a, um, a coffee place down the road?"

"I know of it, yes," he said. It was where he got his coffee every morning, served hot and fresh by a friendly girl with red hair. Castiel tried to think of that instead of what this might be. The word _DATE_ spelled itself out in big block letters in his head and he pushed it away.

"We could meet up there later, or something. When's your shift done?" 

The word _DATE_ made a stubborn come-back. Castiel had frankly no idea what he was doing, or what was happening. He didn't _do_ this, he hadn't really made friends here outside of his coworkers and the people who made him his coffee in the morning. Dean was a stranger, nothing more, one that he'd been an asshole to on their first meeting.

He knew, though, that he wanted nothing more than to accept.

"…Alright. I'm done at four," he said, and Dean grinned so wide Castiel saw in his mind the image of a boy in a children's book who's smile turned into the sun.

"Great! Awesome. I'll see you at four, then," he said. When he smiled this time it was softer, more subdued, but not any less warm to Castiel's heart.

"Okay," he said, his own lips twitching upwards briefly. He watched Dean make his way to the door, and later Meg told him he'd been exceptionally chipper all afternoon. 

He couldn't it find it in himself to care.

 

* * *

 

The walk to the coffee shop was strenuous, and not because of the snow or the cold. Castiel almost turned around twice, wondering what he was doing. His life was fine as it was, and there was no room for someone else in his safe, homely routine. His curiosity got the best of him, however, and so did the pull he felt towards Dean. No one had ever caught his interest like this before, and it was worth pursuing, even if nothing came of it.

Telling himself he was seeking nothing and therefore would be fine if Dean walked away never to be seen again, refusing even friendship, did nothing for him. As soon as Castiel saw him waiting at the door of the coffee place, wrapped in a scarf, he forgot all about his own attempted excuses.

"It's cold," Castiel said when he got within earshot. Exactly the kind of bright, engaging comment he wanted to start with.

"Uh, yeah. It's winter. And you're not wearing a scarf or a hat or even gloves," Dean noted, eyebrows raised.

"You're not wearing a hat either, Dean."

"Are we gonna have coffee or are we gonna squabble about winter wear while we freeze our asses off?"

"Coffee," Cas said, reaching for the door. He held it for Dean, and they both lined up to order, taking off their coats in the cozy heat of the place.

The red head wasn't there that day, but Dean still spoke to the barista like he knew her ( _'Hey, Gilda, throw in one of those cookie sticks, please?'_ ), which meant he was a regular. Which also meant he lived nearby. The thought filled Castiel with relief, as one of the reasons he'd made up for Dean's long absence was that he'd only been passing by, lived elsewhere, maybe as far as his own family, maybe in another country.

They sat in a comfortable booth near a window, Dean looking as much at ease as if he'd been in his own home.

"So, you been working in the book business long?" Dean asked.

"A few years, yes," Castiel answered, wrapping both of his hands around his cup of coffee.  It was warm on his fingers, still cold from the brief walk outside. He hoped the small talk wouldn't last long; he wanted to talk about the book. That he was good at, while talking about the weather, about himself, about his life, was something he wasn't as skilled with.

"You like it?"

Castiel gave Dean a deadpan stare. It was a strange question to ask, or at the very least was one that wouldn't have crossed Castiel's mind.

"Of course. I work there."

"Doesn't mean you like it! I've worked jobs I hated," Dean shrugged, his hand curled around his own cup.

"As have I. But the bookstore — I like it. They let me borrow books," Castiel said. It had, in fact, been one of the convincing arguments Chuck had made him when trying to hire him. Castiel had at first refused, saying he knew nothing of sales or customer service. Chuck had insisted, and after a shaky start, Castiel had become one of their best and a customer favourite for his bluntness and honesty. It helped that he did nothing but read in his free time, and therefore had extensive knowledge on all kinds of books.

"Neat perk for a bookworm," Dean said, smirking over the edge of his coffee. Castiel narrowed his eyes and let out a displeased, gruff sigh.

"Are you insulting me, Dean?"

"Nah," Dean said with a laugh and a grin. "It's…nice to see someone passionate about stuff, y'know?"

Castiel nodded, lowering his gaze to his hands, warming up around his coffee. 

"Tell me what you thought. About Vonnegut," Castiel said.

"Cutting right to the chase huh?"

"I want to know," Castiel frowned, not understanding why Dean was delaying this, why he would need to stall. Maybe he'd hated the book? Maybe he didn't know how to tell Cas he had fucked up and given him the worst book he'd ever read.

"Okay, okay! Stop looking at me like that," Dean waved a hand, before reaching for his coat and taking the book out. "Ready?"

Castiel nodded.

In the end, it didn't matter whether it was a date or not. They talked for a long time. Castiel didn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation with someone that lasted this long. He couldn't remember the last time he'd _enjoyed_ talking to someone for this long. Dean talked to him like he'd known him for much longer, like they were old friends. It was strange at first, but Dean was funny, and he talked about the book like he _got_ it, like he understood it, like its printed letters spelled words that had been chosen just for him. Castiel knew the feeling, and he sipped at his coffee with the knowledge that the warmth spreading all over him wasn't only the hot beverage's doing.

The coffee shop was nearly empty when Dean looked at his watch and made a face.

"Ah, shit. I should go, I've got a shift tonight," he said, shooting Cas an apologetic look. "But we should do this again?" 

It was more a question than a statement, seeking assurance, so Castiel nodded.

"Sure," he said, standing up as Dean put his coat back on. "It was…nicer than I expected," Castiel admitted, smiling a little.

"Alright, then! That settles it." Dean was holding out his hand. Castiel looked down at it before gingerly taking it, giving Dean's hand a firm shake. "I'll see you soon, alright, Cas?"

"Thank you," Castiel said, and then Dean's hand was gone, and so was Dean, and all Castiel was left with was the warmth of Dean's palm against his own.

 

* * *

 

Dean came back two days later. The store was busier than ever, less than a week away from Christmas, so he just mimed drinking coffee to Cas, who nodded his assent. He flashed _five_ with his hand before he was pulled away by another customer looking for 'that one book I saw in the paper last summer'.

He had to fight not to tell them he had someone much more interesting he could be talking to. In fact, the rest of his shift was difficult. The plans they had were a prospect his mind kept returning to, and every customer was a distraction. 

Castiel watched the clock countdown, glancing at it every 5 minutes during his last hour. As soon as it flashed _5:00_ , he was grabbing his coat and putting on his boots. Dean was waiting for him at the door again, shoulders hunched against the wind. It wasn't snowing today, but the chill was the kind that seeped through no matter how many layers of clothing you wore, the kind you felt down to the marrow of your bones.

"You didn't have to wait in the cold," Castiel said, and Dean shrugged as they stepped inside.

"Fresh air's good for you," he said. His hand came to rest at the small of Castiel's back as he guided him toward the line, and Castiel swallowed. Even through his coat the touch made him crave more.

The booth was taken this time, so after ordering they chose a small, rickety table to sit at. The chill had pushed people inside, but the crowd was nice; Castiel felt less exposed. The table they chose was right under a speaker but the indie covers of Christmas songs were a easier on the ears than the classics they played at Castiel's work place.

"I actually need your help tonight," Dean said as they sat. "I gotta get something for my brother for Christmas, and I was thinking a book," Dean said, tapping his fingers on the table. It rocked between them, sending some of Castiel's drink splashing on the table and on his sweater vest.

"Fuck. Oh my god, I'm sorry," Dean stammered, more upset about the accident than Castiel was himself, and it was _his_ shirt. Dean got up in a hurry (almost knocking the entire table over in the process), and returned with two handfuls of napkins.

"Here," he said, pressing some to Castiel's chest to soak up the stain. When Castiel reached to hold the napkins into place, their fingers brushed together. _Something_ happened — it happened fast, and he wasn't convinced he remembered it right when the moment replayed in his mind later that night — but something happened. They both paused and looked at each other, longer than they needed to, longer than they should have. Castiel noted Dean's eyes were a nice, pleasant green. It became difficult to swallow, and his chest felt tight when Dean opened his lips to speak.

Something akin to panic made Castiel brake the spell first, looking away and cutting Dean off.

"Thank you," Castiel said, watching as Dean clenched his jaw before mopping up the mess on the table, looking irritated.

"Fuck man, that's a nice vest and I totally ruined it," he said as he finally sat down, making no comment on the look they'd shared. "I'll, uh, I can give you some money so you can get it cleaned or something, right?"

This was too much trouble for an old sweater vest, and Castiel finished dabbing as much of the coffee off of it as he could. He wouldn't have bothered if he wasn't trying so hard to forget Dean's gaze, but he couldn't exactly tell Dean that. When he pulled the napkins away, the stain was clear, but he didn't care as much as he might have otherwise. The vest _had_ been one of his favourites, but not _the_ favourite. Most of his clothes were second-hand, anyway.

"It's itchy and there's a hole at the stitch. I'm pretty sure I found it in a lost and found. Don't worry about it, Dean," he said, and then gave him a small smile in hopes of helping him relax.

"You sure? I feel terrible, man."

"Don't, Dean," Castiel said. "You can buy me coffee next time," he added as an after thought, smiling as he turned his mug so he could take it by the handle, lifting it to clean the rest of the mess Dean had missed under there.

"Okay, I can do that," Dean said with a sigh, relaxing visibly. 

They both went quiet, sipping at their coffee. Castiel's eyes fell to Dean's lips, curling around the edge of his cup, and he swallowed hard. 

"Your brother," he said suddenly, putting his cup down much more loudly then he'd intended to. He cleared his throat, glanced around at the couple of weird looks he got, then returned his attention to Dean, who was giving him a baffled look.

"Um. My brother?"

"You want to give him a book, right?"

"Oh! Oh, yeah, I do."

"Alright. Tell me about him."

 

* * *

 

It turned out that Dean's brother, Sam, was a law student in Stanford. Dean spoke of him like one spoke of their own child, with a smile and bright eyes and a glow to his face. Castiel could tell he loved his brother fiercely, and although he was now estranged from his family he knew the bonds between siblings could be strong. He had, after all, been very close to his sisters Anna and Rachel.

After only a few minutes, Castiel already had ideas. Dean was so animated when he spoke of Sam, though, that he kept asking questions. There was so much seeping out of him when he talked about Sam, it was like Castiel had lit a spark and fire was catching. He quickly learned that what Dean was the most passionate about was his family. He gave him some ideas, describing the books and why he thought Sam might like them. 

"If you'd like, you could come by tomorrow and I could show them to you," he offered.

"Yeah, that'd be great, 'cause I'm probably going to forget half of these by the time I get home," Dean said. "I have to leave for work in a couple of minutes."

Right. Castiel forgot this had to end eventually, but he was curious to find out what it was Dean did for a living. 

"Can I ask what it is you do?"

"I work for this guy I know, Bobby. He's like family, and he's got a garage. I work the tow truck at night," Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It isn't much but it pays the rent."

"Are you a mechanic?"

"Not…officially, no, but I know my way around cars. Most people calling in for a truck in the middle of the night are so tired they don't realize all they need is a little spark to get their car going again, so I help them out with that," Dean said. "The rest of the time I get their car and give them a ride somewhere."

 _Likes working with his hands_ , Castiel remembered thinking. _Likes helping others_ , he thought now, adding it to the catalogue of Things He Knows About Dean.

"What you're saying is that I could get a free ride if I ever had car trouble," Castiel said with a straight face.

"Yeah? I guess? I mean, it's extra gas we usually charge for but I guess for you — " Dean seemed a little taken aback and flustered, so Castiel cut in immediately, not wanting to mess with him.

"I don't have a car, Dean."

"What? Oh. Shit. You're joking. Christ, Cas!" Dean said with a laugh, running his hand through his hair. "I didn't even know you could joke."

"Thanks," Castiel drawled, and Dean laughed again.

"Okay, I really should go now," Dean said as he stood, grabbing his things. "I'll see you tomorrow, at the store?"

"I'll be there," Castiel assured, smiling. 

There was no handshake this time.

Castiel's evening home was spent thinking about Dean. When Dean was around, Castiel forgot about his shitty family. When Dean listened to him he felt like what he had to say mattered. When Dean wasn't around, Castiel wanted him to be. Even if it was just to sit together while reading their own separate books. He wanted to know more about him, of course, but he thought he'd be content if this was the way things would be between them.

He didn't need more. No matter how badly he wanted to kiss him.

Castiel hadn't even known him for a month.

 

* * *

 

A book landed on the counter under Castiel's eyes, and the familiar title made him look up.

"Hey," Dean said, and Castiel's sour mood from working all day so close to Christmas vanished. Dean was here, and Dean was buying one of the books he'd suggested for Sam.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said with a soft smile, taking the book to ring him up. Dean was smiling too, and they must've looked like idiots, standing there and smiling at each other like that, but Castiel didn't care, because Dean was about to read words strung together in a way that had made Castiel's own heart swell, and sharing that was just as good as having an hour long conversation about their past.

"What are you doing on Christmas Eve?" Dean asked.

"That's a little forward." Teasing Dean, Castiel had found, was easier than it looked. Meg snorted at his side, and he elbowed her sharply as she walked past him.

"What, we're friends! C'mon," Dean said, and Castiel forgot the clever remark he'd thought of making, because, well. _Friends_. When was the last time someone had called him a friend?

"Are we?" He asked, and Dean blinked, startled by the serious tone the conversation had just taken.

"'Course, dude."

Cas nodded as he took Dean's card and swiped it.

"Alright. I was planning on making a turkey sandwich."

The machine beeped, and Castiel ripped Dean's receipt out of it, handing him the copy he had to sign. Dean took a pen, and Castiel watched his hand move, watched him scrawl his name in messy letters on the line.

"And?" Dean asked as he pushed the signed receipt back to him. They were both taking longer than necessary to complete the transaction, trying to get as much time to talk as they could. Castiel would be done late tonight, and he knew from yesterday that Dean would already be at work when he'd make his way home.

"…That's it."

Castiel entered the payment method and let the printer feed the second receipt between his fingers.

"No dinner? No party? No gifts or nothing? No family?"

He stopped at this, a single second as he reached for the stapler, before shaking his head and stapling Dean's receipts together. He could get this whole process done with his eyes closed and within 20 seconds most days.

"I'm not…No, no family," he said, finally handing Dean his bag and his receipt.

Dean nodded, his eyes pinning Cas like a rare specimen of butterfly in a case, labels carefully written out.

"Then we should do something," Dean said, taking the bag and one of Castiel's heartbeats with it.

"I don't even have your phone number," Castiel blurted out. He hadn't expected to spend Christmas with anyone, yet alone Dean. He hadn't expected Dean to _want_ to spend it with him. Dean had a family, a brother, and wasn't that who he should be spending it with?

The receipt was handed back to him, turned around. Castiel stared at it for a second before Dean grabbed his hand and put the pen between his fingers.

"Write yours down. I'll text you. Or, uh, call you, if you're more of a call person," Dean said, stammering in that cute way he did when he was nervous about saying the wrong thing. Castiel looked at him, the wide, hopeful look on his face, and then brought pen to paper and wrote down his number.

"I wasn't saying that as an invitation," Castiel grumbled before handing it back to him.

"I'll cook dinner. We're both spending it alone, we might as well, right?" Dean said, shrugging, so casual about it that Castiel nodded and smiled like spending Christmas alone with the person you wanted to kiss the most in your entire life, who's lips felt like they could reveal the secrets of the universe once pressed to yours, was perfectly normal.

 

* * *

 

 _This isn't weird at all_ , Castiel told himself when he walked out of the store on December 24th, finding Dean waiting for him. _This isn't weird or romantic or awkward, it's friends keeping each other company on Christmas._ He didn't want to hope, not when he'd had no indication that Dean thought of him as anything but a friend. Although spending Christmas Eve was a token night for romance (in fact in some cultures it was considered more romantic than Valentine's Day), Castiel reminded himself that he did not in fact live in a novel, or in any other country than the United States. 

Dean was leaning casually against the wall, a paper bag clearly containing a bottle in his hand. Every time Castiel saw him he was momentarily stunned by how much he _liked_ looking at him. He could do just that for hours, watch him, listen to him, trace his features with his eyes.

 _"_ Hey!" Dean grinned at him, tucking the paper bag under his arm to shove his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "I don't live very far, just a few stops away. Mind taking the subway?"

"Not at all," Cas said, taking his eyes away from Dean's as they began walking. It wasn't terribly cold, thankfully, and the slow flurry of snow made the night rival most Hollywood Christmas movies. Dean told him about the meal he'd prepared, and it sounded delicious. It had the unfortunate consequence of making him picture Dean with an apron on, working all day to bake and cook, listening to music as he hummed and followed his many recipes.

"I also, uh, got us a little something," Dean said, patting his paper bag once they had taken their seats on the subway train. He winked, and Castiel bit the inside of his cheek not to smile.

"What must it be, I have no idea," he said instead.

"Oh, shut up," Dean laughed, shoving at Cas with his shoulder. Castiel smiled down at his hands, because nothing made him want to more than knowing he'd made Dean laugh. He was quickly learning that romance novels weren't entirely off, that sometimes you really did get butterflies, that sometimes you really felt your stomach churn, that your hands did get sweaty and nervous.

And all of it was worth it. They were symptoms of a sickness you couldn't help but want more of.

When Dean tapped his shoulder to indicate it was their stop, Castiel looked up sharply only to realize it was his station, too.

"I live near here," he said as they got off, both stepping onto the elevator. Dean was a few steps above him, and he Castiel looked up at him. For a second the one of the ceiling lights lined up behind his head and lit him up. Castiel blinked, burning the image into his mind: Dean grinning down at him, cheeks flushed and happy.

"Oh yeah?" Dean said. "Maybe we're neighbours," he waggled his eyebrows, and Cas scoffed and looked away. Hopefully it looked like what he wanted it to: nonchalant and unamused, although Dean's dorky little quirks made him feel anything but. He heard Dean laugh, and then they were back on solid ground, walking out of the warm building and into the snow. 

The more they walked the more Castiel's frown deepened. They were taking the same way he took home every day after work, until they were right in front of his appartment building. It was part of a set of multiple, identical ones, pressed together, only a few floors high.

"Um," he said as Dean walked up the stairs of the building right next to his. Dean stopped, looking over his shoulder.

"What? Are you okay?"

Castiel pointed to the balcony, _his_ balcony, jutting out from the wall a few feet above the entrance door they'd just walked by.

"See that balcony?"

"Uh. Yeah?" Dean frowned, looking from the balcony to Castiel and back again.

"It's mine. I live there," Castiel said in an exhale, dropping his hand. He suddenly felt sweaty and too warm. A vague memory of his mother, her hand on his shoulder as they watched Lucifer being cuffed by policemen, came to him. She had leaned down and spoken the words: _Everything happens for a reason._ She had meant God, of course, and the words were a warning at the time. Now, though, Castiel knew that the only reason this was happening was because he'd chosen to talk to Dean, because he'd decided to see him after work, because he'd agreed to spend Christmas Eve with him.

All of that, all of this, had been results of his own decisions.

"What?" Dean asked, eyes widening.

"I live in that building," Castiel repeated. He took a few steps toward Dean, 

"You're shitting me."

"Why would I be shitting you?" Castiel frowned again and tilted his head, watching Dean as he looked at him in disbelief. Then something flooded his face, a joy and awe that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Castiel wished he still held that much excitement for the small things.

"Holy shit! Oh man, that's kind of cool," Dean laughed. "What are the odds, man? And I was totally joking about this! It's awesome."

"I guess so."

"I'll know where to go if I ever need some sugar," Dean said before holding the door open for Castiel. Who did his best to tell himself Dean wasn't implying anything, despite the glint in his eyes.

 

* * *

Dean's place was small, but neat and tidy. The door opened directly into the living room, in which there was a small television and a big couch. Castiel smiled as he saw _Slaughterhouse Five_ resting on it, and then his eyes fell to a small shelving unit that was crammed with books. The shelf of DVDs next to it was bigger, and mostly filled with boxed series. A record player was resting on a milk crate, and aged vinyls filled it; Castiel wondered what kind of music Dean liked listening to, and hoped he'd find out soon. The decorating wasn't much, but it made it look lived in, and Castiel took an immediate liking to it. It was warm, welcoming, homey, and most of all, fit perfectly with the home he imagined Dean to live in.

Castiel followed him into the kitchen after hanging up his coat. It was, by far, the most impressive room of the place. It looked about twice as big as the living room, and every surface of it was sparkling clean.

"Okay, I know you're my guest and all but I kinda have to Skype my brother," Dean said as he put the bottle down on the counter, taking it out of it's paper bag.

"It's fine, Dean. I can keep out of your way," Castiel said, taking the bottle to read the label. It wasn't cheap wine, and was far more expensive than anything Castiel would have picked out for himself.

"No way, dude. Gotta introduce you," Dean said as he opened the fridge and got two beers out for them. Castiel took it and immediately took a huge gulp, a sudden anxiety curling up in his stomach at the thought of having a webcam based communication with Dean's little brother. He knew, rationally, that he had nothing to be worried about, but Dean spoke so highly of Sam, he didn't want to be a disappointment.

"It's not a race, Cas," Dean said, amused as he put his beer down and disappeared down the hall. He came back with a laptop, and he started it up on the kitchen counter.

"What am I going to say?" He asked, and Dean shot him a puzzled glance over his shoulder.

"What are you talking about? Just say hi for a quick second. Get over here," he said, reaching for Castiel, who reluctantly stepped in the camera's field of vision. Dean slid an arm around his waist to pull him in closer, causing a few of Castiel's neurones to short circuit. They were both in the frame now, and Castiel could actually see how pressed together they were. Beeps and boops came out of the computer's speaker as the program dialled.

"He's like a puppy, Cas, you'll see," Dean said. Castiel tried to relax into Dean's touch, focusing on every contact point between them. Hips, shoulders, arms, Dean's hand on his waist.

Eventually it stopped, and Dean's arm dropped as a boy appeared on camera. He was more of a man than a boy, broad and built and with long, floppy hair.

"Sammy! How goes it!" Dean exclaimed, beaming at the screen.

"Hey, Dean!" Sam greeted, before his eyes lingered over Castiel. "You're Cas, right?"

Sam knew about him, apparently, which both made Castiel happy (Dean had spoken about him!) and terrified him (Dean had spoken about him?). He swallowed and nodded, his grip on his beer too tight, missing the warmth of Dean's arm at his back, comforting.

"Yes. It's nice to meet you, Sam. Dean speaks highly of you," Castiel said, and Sam laughed.

"Yeah right! All he knows how to do is complain," Sam scoffed.

"Hey, I take offence to that!" Dean said, but he was still grinning. He took a sip of his beer, and Castiel smiled at him.

"So, uh," Sam said, and Cas snapped his gaze away from Dean, returning his attention to the computer. He flushed for getting caught looking, and cleared his throat before taking another big gulp of his beer. "What're your plans?"

"I cooked dinner," Dean said. "Then I guess we're gonna watch a movie?" He turned to Cas, who nodded. A movie sounded good.

"It smells delicious," he said, before frowning. "The food, I mean. Not the movie."

Sam laughed again, and Castiel decided bright sunny grins ran in the family. They didn't look very much alike, but resemblance was there, the affection they held for each other even more so. He almost didn't mind that he'd embarrassed himself, if it meant he'd made Sam laugh. That was a sign he liked him. Hopefully.

"Relax, dude, this isn't a job interview," Dean teased, nudging him with an elbow. "He's shy," Dean said with a smirk toward the camera, and Sam chuckled.

Castiel wanted to defend himself, although there was no way for him to explain that he wasn't _shy_ , that he was nervous to be at Dean's place, with Dean alone, and on Christmas Eve, and that those thoughts made him more preoccupied than anything.

"Could I use your bathroom?" Castiel asked instead. He had no need to, of course, but it was an excuse to escape, and to leave Sam and Dean to their talk. They would likely have a better time of it if he wasn't hovering around.

"Down the hall, second door," Dean said, his attention only fleeting, returning to Sam as Castiel thanked him.

Castiel turned, and just as he moved away he heard Dean ask _So, what do you think?_ In hushed tones. Thinking it better not to think about this or dwell on what he might mean, he made his way to the living room and the bookshelf. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books, tilting his head to read the titles. It was well organized, like the rest of Dean's apartment. He lingered over the Kerouac and the Bukowski, and smiled at the stack of comic books at the bottom. Something caught his eye and he bent down, picking up _Slaughterhouse Five_.

The very same edition Dean had taken from his hands. The one that was lying on the couch.

Castiel grabbed it, holding both copies in his hands. He flipped through the copy he'd found on the shelf, and found a receipt tucked in the last few pages. It was faded and yellowed, dating from a few years back. Castiel wasn't sure what to think, why Dean would have bought a book he already owned. Perhaps it had been gifted to him, but why gift an old book, why take it without explaining he already owned a copy?

If Dean had read it before, it explained why he spoke of the book like he'd read it multiple times: he had. It didn't, however, explain why Dean didn't stop him when he mentioned it to him, or handed it to him. 

"Hey, Cas, you wanna — " He heard Dean say, his sentence trailing off into a shocked silence. "Uh. I can explain that," he said, and Castiel weighed both books in his hands before giving Dean a quizzical look.

"Had you read it before?" He asked.

"Um. I might have? Shit, man, don't be mad," Dean said, grimacing. "I swear I wasn't tricking you or anything, not really."

"I'm not angry, Dean. I don't understand," he said. Dean's face was the definition of apologetic, but the intensity of it surprised Castiel. Dean _cared_ , more than he'd allowed himself to think. He couldn't look away, although his hands were growing moist at the thought of having severely misjudged the last few days.

"Okay, look. This is going to sound really creepy, but. I saw you working and I didn't know how to talk to you," Dean said, letting himself fall into his couch. His knee was bouncing up and down, but it didn't stop Castiel from raising an eyebrow at him. 

"Didn't know how to talk to me? I sell books for a living, Dean. Talk about books," Castiel said, before deciding he preferred being on Dean's level and taking a seat next to him. Not far enough to be obvious, but enough so they weren't touching. Despite his desire for Dean's proximity, Castiel still had his doubts that the feeling was mutual.

"Well, I did! In the end. It just took, um, bumping into you, and then saying the first writer I could think of," Dean said, running a hand down his face. "Ugh, this is so embarrassing. I'm usually good at this shit!"

"What shit? Making friends?" Castiel asked, inclining his head. Dean's nervousness was cute, in it's own way, and Castiel didn't mean to push him — only to understand what he was being told, only to understand where Dean was getting at.

"No, man. The whole — " He started, before stopping himself to turn his face away. " — Romancing thing," he grit out. It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, and then Castiel sat back on the couch, staring at his own hands.

"Oh." 

Verbose as ever. He was seeing the bigger picture now, realizing that he'd been wrong. Convincing himself that Dean might not enjoy this as much, or might choose to walk away, had been a waste of his time. Something fluttered in his stomach, and he wanted to curl up and hide his face into Dean's couch, pretend he was part of it's pattern, that he was nothing but fabric.

What even happened after this? Castiel had read hundreds of books, hundreds of novels, and yet he couldn't figure out the next step. 

"If you're not…it's okay if you're weirded out by this. I just like hanging with you, and you're like…hot in a cute way, if that makes sense," Dean stammered, running his mouth. Castiel didn't mind, although each of Dean's confessions made the fluttering double and triple. He was afraid opening his mouth would release the swarm of butterflies captured there, so he kept it shut, staring down at the empty expanse of couch between them.

"Cas, please," Dean said, the tone so broken and pleading that Castiel had to look at him. Dean looked upset, and scared, and it made Castiel's heart clench. "Say something."

"Why didn't you tell me you'd read _Slaughterhouse_ before?"

There was so much more Castiel wanted to ask. So much he wanted to say, but those were the first words out of his mouth. Dean flinched, and Castiel felt terrible for not saying something else, anything else. For causing Dean to look at him like that, with wide eyes and trembling lips. He was looking at him so openly, and he understood this was Dean at his most raw, and that it was a rare sight.

"You got all…into it when you talked about it. All passionate and stuff. You were kind of a stubborn jerk, but when you talked about the book… I don't know. You really liked it and you really wanted me to like it and it only made me like you more," Dean said before turning away again, his eyes falling to the floor. His knee was no longer bouncing up and down. "I just really liked watching you talk and hearing what you had to say. You kinda blew me away."

For a moment Castiel wasn't sure what to make of Dean's words. He tried to think of ever feeling this way about something someone had said about him and came up empty. Nothing compared, and in fact, that was one of his favourite things about Dean: no one compared. There was no one like him. There was no one like him, and out of the million of people out there, he'd stopped on Castiel.

It was almost impossible for him to wrap his mind around that. Dean _liked_ him, and had from the moment they'd met, and here Castiel had tried to convince himself he was happy to have made a friend, when Dean's hands and lips and eyes followed his every thought.

"I have another question," he said after a few seconds of silence. Dean sighed, resigned, and looked over at Cas again.

"Okay."

Castiel had a choice. He could back out of this now, if he wanted. It would be easy, simple, and his life would go back to what it had been. There would be no disturbances and changes to his routine. Life wouldn't feel new and startling at every turn anymore. He would know who he is and where he belongs and what his role is. He wouldn't be terrified of making a mistake, of losing Dean, of Dean learning where he came from, who he came from.

The problem was that Cas didn't want that. The last time he had felt like this had been the moment he'd told his family he had the intention of leaving and never speaking to any of them again. He had been scared, but had felt sure of his choice, sure of himself. Now it was another matter entirely, but the fear was the same, and Castiel thought if it meant spending more time with Dean, if it meant kissing him and listening to his music and having coffee and talking about books, then it was worth it. 

He turned toward Dean, shifting so he was sitting closer, their knees knocking together as he settled back down. Dean was watching his every move, waiting in quiet resolve. Their eyes locked, and for a few seconds they just looked at each other. Dean licked his lips, and that was all Castiel needed to ask his question.

"Can I kiss you?" He said at last.

"Fuck, yes, please," he breathed low; Dean's face immediately broke, relief flooding over his features. There was so much in his voice, in the roughness of it, that it made Castiel's breath hitch. Dean wanted this, desperately, and Castiel leaned in just as Dean grabbed him. They met halfway, and Castiel missed as Dean tilted his head. He kissed the corner of his lips, and felt Dean smile before warm hands cupped his face and finally angled them just right.

The butterflies in his stomach broke free and spread all over him. Castiel felt the soft press of Dean's lips and pressed back firmly. When their lips parted slightly, they slotted together just right, and Castiel thought he might melt as Dean let out a soft, pleading sound from the back of his throat. Cas' hands found themselves at Dean's chest, resting there. He felt Dean's heart beat against his rib cage, matching his own.

The kiss was over too soon. It had been chaste, but warm and soft and just wet enough. Most of all, it had been careful, like Dean didn't quite believe this was real, like doing too much might wake him from his dream.

Their noses bumped as they took a moment, Dean's hand sliding down Castiel's jaw so his fingers could brush along it. Cas licked his lips, tasted Dean on them, and shivered. Neither of them spoke, and Cas slid his arms around Dean's neck, shifting against so he was pressed close. Their legs tangled together on the couch, and Castiel pressed his forehead against Dean's, his heart still beating in his ears.

There was nothing he could really say. He'd read scenes like this before, and knew the words for them, but this wasn't a novel, this wasn't made up. This was real, and he could feel Dean's breath ghost over his lips.

"I like you," Dean said, quiet, a soft murmur meant only for Castiel's ears. He heard it, loud and clear, heard it even before this in the way Dean had stammered, in the way he'd kissed him like something precious.

"I like you too," Castiel breathed in return, uttering the words and for the first time meaning them entirely. Dean laughed, and Cas kissed his cheek, and then the tip of his nose. It was strange how easy it was, how natural it felt to feel Dean's skin under his lips.

"Man, if I'd known I would have gotten you a way better Christmas present," Dean said, and Cas smiled against Dean's temple. A hand came to his lower back, holding him closer, and he leaned further into his side. _Warm_ and _safe_ made an appearance, and he squirmed until he fit just right.

"What did you get me?" Castiel asked.

"A scarf," Dean said before laughing again. "And gloves."

For that, Castiel leaned in to press another light kiss to Dean's lips.

"That's really thoughtful. It's perfect, Dean," he said, smiling, his heart feeling about to burst.

"Merry Christmas, Cas," Dean whispered against Castiel's lips.

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

They kissed again, and again. They ate dinner, and kissed between bites. They drank wine and watched a movie, their hands laced together. They dozed off curled together on the couch.

For the first time, but definitely not the last, they kissed each other good morning.

 

 

 


End file.
